He pointed at the view. The bus was coming up to the unmistakable arches of the Pont Neuf, and beyond it were the tall, dark spires and pale beige buildings of the Conciergerie, holding court above the brown, rushing river. The sun beat down hard, and the sky was a pale, Venetian blue. White slips of cloud were streaming away to the east, towards the hidden towers of Notre-Dame. It was only just the beginning of summer, the longest hours of sunlight in the year, and the days ran long and luminous.

“I’ve been here a thousand times,” said Lavalle. His glance at Nicholas faltered just on the side of charming, as though sharing an intimate moment with a near-stranger was something he wasn’t used to; as though he didn’t invite intimacy with every picture, every selfie, every #nofilter #homesweethome #liveyourbestlife he posted a couple times an hour. “But I’ve never grown tired of the view.”

Nicholas stared at him. Lavalle held his gaze for a moment, then glanced away. His hair fell softly into his eyes. He’d have to cut it, for the role.

He had to be a con. No one was this...this naturally unaffected, to the point that artlessness itself became an affectation. Nicholas could barely figure him out: every second he spent in Lavalle’s company troubled him the more.

Lavalle was disconcerting. He kept reinventing himself. He was no longer the elegant, charismatic young man from the Place Colette, who had posed and smiled and allowed his congregation to take an endless stream of selfies. Nicholas had no idea who this man was, with that shy smile, those pale sleepy eyes. He only knew that his body was responding in kind—was roused as though from deep slumber into some new state of being, more febrile and more real.

The bus lurched to a stop at a red light—Place du Châtelet, a green plaque said—and with a startled noise Lavalle stumbled against him. He was a sudden, warm weight against Nicholas, who, having wisely braced himself against the railing, captured his elbow in his hand. Muscle and tendon and sheer vitality. Lavalle’s eyes lifted to meet his.

They were almost the same height. Nicholas was a touch taller, and broader about the shoulders. He had the sudden urge to slip one arm firmly around Lavalle’s waist. Lavalle’s hand had landed on his chest, and as the bus resumed its course it remained there, his fingertips tangled in the wool of Nicholas’s sweater.

“Pardon,” he said. The n was softened in his accent, barely there.

“Sure,” said Nicholas. His own voice, he realized, was hoarse.

Don’t miss Eight Weeks in Paris by S.R. Lane,
available wherever books are sold.

Copyright © 2022 by S.R. Lane

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